fracture
by black.k.kat
Summary: Drabble. He drowns in the grip of cold grey hands, in green water that crushes without mercy.


He drowns in the grip of cold grey hands, in green water that crushes without mercy. He sinks and sinks and sinks and nothing he does matters, has ever mattered, but this will.

Death has meaning, even when nothing else does.

Sunlight fading, far above, trail of bubbles trickling off into

one last gasp

of air

and—

Heat like fire, water swirling. Grey hands letting go, but he's still sinking, weighted down. No strength to struggle, darkness bleeding in, but—

A thud that makes his ears hurt, and then a hand around his wrist—familiar, achingly. Small and desperately tight, dragging him forward, dragging him _up_

and suddenly there's light

there's _warmth_

and the pain is terrible but those familiar hands are on his shoulders and

a voice

(not the whisper of his greatest fears but)

"Master Regulus! Master Regulus, Kreacher is a bad elf and will punish himself, but _please_ , Master Regulus, _wake up_!"

(oh)

He forces himself to think past the tearing, burning pain, gathers his thoughts as best he can. His throat is dry, cracking, and his mouth feels as though it's about to bleed from thirst but—

"Take us away," he rasps, and, "Don't punish—you're a good elf. Don't—"

Kreacher's grip on his shoulders tightens.

"Master Regulus," he breathes, joy and relief like Regulus has never heard from him before. "Master Regulus, Kreacher will, but _where_?"

More thought, and it's so _hard_ , but Regulus's greatest weapon has always been his mind, and he forces himself past the pain, the terror, the hopelessness.

Not Sirius, who hates him.

Not Bellatrix, who loves the Dark Lord to the point of madness.

Not Narcissa, though he loves her, because she will follow Lucius and he's the Dark Lord's puppet.

Not Severus, stewing in his bitterness, and—

Walburga Black would doubtless like to believe her youngest—only, now—son was some sort of Slytherin prince, sweeping through the halls of Hogwarts in grand array, trailed by a gaggle of loyal followers.

The truth is something far different.

Perhaps it would be different if he could relate with others his age, if he had those followers his mother likes to imagine he does, but Regulus is hardly one to be sociable, and from the age of nine onward, his only friend has been a house elf. Sirius is the bright and shining star in their family, disowned or not, and Regulus will never even attempt to take that place from him. He, like everyone else, is happy to be a lesser star, falling in Sirius's orbit unlooked and unasked for.

Oh, how Sirius would laugh and mock to know that his little brother still adores him. How their mother would rage. But it's the habit of eleven years of life, and Regulus is unable to break it. Sirius was always the one he went to with hurts and fears and hopes and dreams, because he was the wise, funny, clever older brother and their parents were hardly welcoming. In their family, it is probably he who knows Regulus the best, but…

The thoughts are fracturing, drifting again, but Regulus gathers them up like threads and anchors himself in them, desperate to remain. There's no one, no one at all, but—

A memory, bright-dark and almost lost, slipping forward in his drifting state. Light brown hair falling forward, framing wide, kind eyes. Clever hands touching the torn skin of his knee, bloodied in a child's careless tumble. A whispered word, soothing warmth, an absence of pain—

What he wouldn't give for that now, and

maybe if he just

 _tries_

one last time

he'll finally—

"Andromeda," he whispers on a fading breath, and then

darkness sweeping in

tumbling down

carrying him away and

then nothing

more.

* * *

He comes awake in shards and shattered pieces, fractured-fading in reverse. Bright-bold pain sparks through his nerves, sharp-edged red against the matte black of sleep, and pulls him to the surface. There's no more dragging weight, no ache of thirst like he's never felt before scraping poisoned claws across his throat. No more phantoms snatching at him, terrifying wraiths to drive him straight to madness.

Just warmth, softness like sunlight and clean linens. A hand on his face, cupping his cheek, chilled glass against his cracked lips.

"Drink," a long-missed voice whispers, and Regulus obeys. The cold water is a relief, but not a desperate one—shade on a warm day, rather than ice after a fire. He reaches up, reaches out, fingers grasping blindly, and someone catches him.

"Shh," she murmurs, and Regulus takes a breath of crushed roses and white amber. He opens his eyes to dust motes drifting in long slants of sunlight, pale brown hair tumbling around him in pretty curls, and the kind eyes that mean—

"Andromeda," he manages, and it hurts but nothing like before.

Before when—

A gasp, panic like a vast hand clenched around his heart, and he jerks but is held down. "No!" he cries, and that hurts more, tearing from a throat that's not quite healed. "No, _Kreacher_ —"

 _Crack_ , and there's another hand, small but deceptively strong, wrapped around his wrist the way it was when Kreacher saved him. "Master Regulus, Master Regulus, Kreacher is here!"

Regulus clutches at him, desperate and too weak for anything more. "The locket," he cries. "Did you—is it—?"

"Destroyed," Andromeda says gently, pushing him back against the pillows. "I destroyed it, Regulus, calm down. I used Fiendfyre, there's nothing left but ashes."

The relief is akin to surfacing, to his first breath of air instead of water as grim hands ceased to drag him under. The panic is easing, fading, tempered by safety and fierce, fearsome satisfaction, almost savage in its force. "I beat him," he whispers. "I did it, I found his secret."

Andromeda smooths a hand over his brow, brushing locks of hair from his eyes. "And nearly got yourself killed doing it," she says practically. "Regulus, what on earth is this all about? That poison in your system—I'm decent at potions, but I've never seen anything like it before."

"Can't," he whispers, and the darkness is rising again—a comforting tide, instead of a drowning wave. With it comes more warmth, the certainty that no one will find him here, that no one will even look. "Can't tell you, can't tell anyone. Not…"

 _Safe_ , he wants to say, but slips away into the greedy grasp of sleep before he can.

(But just for a moment, maybe he is.)


End file.
